A Chill Rain
by Catman99
Summary: Harry investigates a series of murders. Harry/Hermione. Post-Epilogue. Rated M for strong language, graphic violence, and some sexual scenes.
1. The Third Murder

It was raining as Harry walked up the bleak concrete steps to the apartment building. It was always raining in London these days. He tipped his bowler back to try and shift some of the water that had settled in the rim, but only succeeded in spreading a chill down the back of his neck. He shuddered and pulled his overcoat in closer around him.

There was a bored looking woman stood at the door to the block, dressed in a tartan flannel shirt and faded black jeans. The chunky headphones over her ears suggested disgruntled youth stepping out for a cheeky fag, but the trained professional would note the roving eyes and the occasional twitch of the nose as she tried to stay focused. The woman jumped to attention when she saw Harry approach.

"D-director P-p-potter, we weren't expecting to see you..." she stammered out, whilst Harry waved her off with gloved hand.

"Not to worry, it's not an inspection," he said, as brightly as he could manage. "I'm a friend of the family's. I know the boy's father,"

"Ah," the young auror said awkwardly. "I-I'm sorry for your l-l-loss, sir,"

"Don't be, can't say I particularly remember him," Harry said, stepping into the building and suppressing another shudder that ran slightly deeper. There was blood on the wall at the bottom of the stairwell, a smeared stain that suggested something had been dragged. He took a second to drain his hat and de-fog his glasses, before unbuttoning his coat so that he could put his now ungloved hands in his suit pocket. He looked at the young auror.

"A-a-are you undercover sir?" Doshi asked, gesturing at Harry's outfit. He shrugged and gave her a weak smile.

"I travelled through muggle London," he said. "I like to blend in,"

Harry paused for a second and looked up the staircase into the darkness of the concrete tower.

"Uhm..." he said, casting into the dark recesses of his mind for her name. "Doshi, is it?"

A faint nod from the young woman.

"Is it bad?" he asked faintly. She shrugged, but her face paled a little.

"It's not pretty," Doshi said, her voice firmer now. "But I've seen worse,"

"Mmm," Harry said lightly, narrowing his eyes as he looked up the stairs. "Third floor, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Doshi said. "Are aurors Hale and Kelley expecting you sir?"

"Oh, I doubt it," Harry said mildly. "Keep up the look out,"

He turned and gave the young auror a smile that seemed to take twenty years off him, his emerald eyes flashing, and Doshi found herself picturing the man he was shown in the history books at Hogwarts – young and full of vigour.

"Will do sir," she said.

The smile had already faded from Harry's face as he mounted the stairs, knees complaining a little at the forced workout when they'd rather be tucked under a desk. His coat beat out a steady drip on the concrete as he climbed, a beat for every step.

The building had been evacuated by the auror department as soon as the murder was reported, he knew that much. A suspected gas leak, apparently, though it had been the neighbours who had reported the funny smell and the loud noises coming from apartment number 32. That much he had read before he left the office.

He reached the third floor without wheezing, which was nice, though his calves burned a little more than they perhaps should have done. Harry made an effort to stay in shape, but three decades of fighting the dark arts would take their toll on any man. The door to apartment 32 was open, but the director knew that he would be unable to cross the threshold without one of the auror badges that sat on his belt.

Harry's first impression of apartment 32 was that it had been a dingy place to live even before a young man had been brutally murdered there. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling and the yellowed wallpaper was peeling away from the damp, in places, to meet the cigarette burns on the carpet. A stack of takeaway boxes sat on the surface of the kitchenette.

His second impression was of blood. Harry had been an auror for coming on twenty-three years now, and he knew exactly how much blood the human body held. Exactly how much. And it still surprised him. Young Jonathan Cassidy had all of his blood on display. It splashed the walls, a vivid scarlet, it soaked the carpet, a deep maroon, and it adorned his corpse, a crusty black.

His eyes were staring wide, glassy, at the open door. His throat was cut so violently that it almost looked as if someone had tried to hack it off. He had been opened up, chest to belly, and his organs sat in his lap. Hale was knelt down next to him, examining, her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail and her pale, thin wand tracing faint nonsense patterns under his eyes.

"Do you think it was poison?" Harry said from the door, then felt a sudden urge to vomit. He clamped his jaw shut and ground his teeth a little until the sensation passed and his stomach settled.

_Stupid, _he told himself, _seen worse than that before. Dreamed worse. Picked up the little pieces of worse than that before now..._

He stopped his train of thought before it took him somewhere unpleasant. Hale looked up from Cassidy's body and nodded a greeting.

"Director," she said. "Wasn't expecting you down here,"

"I decided to stop by," Harry said. "I know the boy's father from a few Ministry events. And these muggleborn killings...they're starting to add up. Where's Kelley?"

"Stepped out onto the balcony for a cigarette," Hale said, then gestured vaguely at him with her wand. "You're dripping on my crime scene,"

Harry looked down at the puddle that had quickly formed underneath him and sighed. He gave his wand the slightest of flicks and his clothes were instantly warm and dry, though the puddle remained, and he'd get wet again as soon as he left the building.

"Sorry," he said. "What have you got?"

Hale picked up a notepad from it's resting place on a threadbare sofa and flicked through to the front, her tongue between her teeth.

"Jonathan Cassidy, seventeen, muggleborn, a student of Ravenclaw house at Hogwarts. Ran away from school three weeks ago. We were unable to use the Trace to pick him up because, obviously, he recently turned of age. Father is Samuel Cassidy, notable muggle rights activist and potions magnate. A pal of your father-in-law I think, sir? We've been on the look out for the kid for a while, no idea how long he's been here. There's a trunk in the bedroom, but we've been unable to get a look at it. It's got some bastard riddle lock on it that neither of us could get a look at. Time of death is somewhere in the last day. I'd guess at night, because the lights were still on when we broke the door down. Death is pretty straight forward to me. Someone cut him up with dark magic and left a mess. Either said someone was out of their mind, or they're proving a point,"

"So you think this fits the pattern of the other killings then?" Harry said. Hale shrugged mournfully and looked at the bloody wall behind the body.

"Other than it being a runaway student?" she said. "Yes. The message is here, same as in the other cases,"

Hale waved her wand and letters flashed into relief in the blood, stark and bold like they'd been carved into the poor quality concrete. The door to the balcony opened and Kelley stepped in, his hair a shaggy mess and his face half-shaved.

"Enemies of the heir beware," he said in his Irish lilt. "Doesn't half give you the creeps, does it boss?"

Harry's lips were moving soundlessly. He'd seen it before, at the other crime scenes, but it was just as shocking each time. And each time it carried him back, twenty-eight years ago, to a shrill, high voice shouting _"You'll be next mudbloods!"_.

He shuddered. The door to the balcony was letting the cold air in again. He looked over at the two aurors, who were watching him with interest. Hale had been a year behind him at school, and he knew that she could remember those words scrawled outside the girl's toilets in blood.

"Have you been up to the school to interview his classmates? His teachers?" Harry asked, thrusting his hands deeper into his suit pocket.

"I was about to head off and do that just now sir. Thought I might take Doshi with me, give her some canvassing experience. Got pretty much all we can use from here, haven't we?" Kelley said, sharing a glance with Hale. Harry knew he was advocating detective-work 101, but a part of him was still used to the bad old days of the auror department. Find a perp, find the evidence to match. Have wand, will travel.

"Yeah, you head off now," Hale said. "Before the stink of booze gets engrained in my robes. I'll take the trunk back, sort the body out, then I'll let the muggles back in. They were about ready to pitch a fit,"

"Right you are," Kelley said, inclining his unruly head as he walked out the door. "Ma'am, boss,"

There was silence in the apartment for a few seconds before they could hear the Irishman's rich booming voice from below, and the two figures relaxed a little. The murder scene seemed to create tension like static.

"Off the record," Harry said. "What do you think?"

"Off the record?" Hale asked. Harry nodded. "Off the record you shouldn't come down here. It gives more weight to the story, and it's more we have to cover up,"

"We're not covering up anything-" Harry started, but was cut off.

"With all due respect Director, that's bollocks," the auror said. "This is the third. It's officially a pattern now, and somehow you've managed to keep it out of the _Prophet_. I don't know how you do it,"

"Friends in high places," Harry said quietly. Hale snorted.

"You being here lends more weight to it," she said again. "And we both know what this is. It could be a single deranged psychopath, but it's not. It's a group of determined individuals trying to make a point. And if we keep covering it up, they're going to try and make a bigger statement. It's only a matter of time,"

_Which is why I need to stop them_, Harry thought.

"Which is why you need to stop them," Harry said. "Before they do,"

"That's very easy to say," Hale said. "But there's no end of suspects. The waters are getting murkier around about now. These murders. The whole 'Renaissance Club', and Mr Selwyn's speech in front of the Wizengamot. And that damned book's come out. It's all heading towards a fever pitch, Harry, and there's not much we can do about it. Shacklebolt's over-reached, and letting that terrier Granger loose on Magical Law Enforcement-"

"Enough," Harry said firmly, real anger flashing into his eyes for the briefest of seconds. Hale's blonde eyebrows jumped up and Harry sighed, letting his temper simmer back down again into the depths.

"Enough," he said, more quietly, tired now. "I get it. Do what you can for the case, but we need to take steps to be more pro-active. I want all high profile muggleborns and muggle rights activists under observation. The most important get bodyguards. If this is a group, then they'll want to be high profile,"

"And what about this mess?" Hale asked, gesturing at the apartment. "How are we meant to keep this quiet? He was a kid for Merlin's sake, at Hogwarts. Parents are going to go ballistic,"

"It's fine," Harry said. "I'll sort it. I'm heading down to the _Prophet _now,"

"Good," Hale said, her mouth a firm line. "Thankyou for your visit, Director,"

Harry nodded. "Always a pleasure Auror,"

The walk out of the apartment was eerier, more silent now except for the slightly irregular sound of his step on the stairs. His mind was ablur, abuzz. Images crept through his head likes the flies crawling on the bloated corpse they had found under Tower Bridge, harrying him for a second and then flying away. Or, more aptly, like the body that had been sent to the Auror Department piece by piece. Bloody lumps dumped on the desk of his mind, staining it.

A fever pitch, Hale had said, and Harry thought it most apt. Something was sick, rotten, and it was making Magical Britain sweat and vomit. People were scared, muggleborns especially. It was like some black spectre had risen up again, to wage war against the land. But there was nothing there. Not any more. London was bleaker than it had been since the fall of Voldemort, and people didn't know why. But Harry did.

He had to talk to Selwyn. And then to Hermione.

It was still raining outside.


	2. Masters, Manners, and Morals

The offices of the _Daily Prophet _were on Diagon Alley, a big squat redbrick building sat across the street from Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. The contrast between the ugly little block of practicality and the child-like splendour of the ice cream parlour was more apparent to Harry now than it had ever been before. Fortescue's parasols had been put down, whilst the _Prophet_ belched the black smoke of the printing press out from the fat chimney on it's roof.

He didn't remember ever having an impression of the _Prophet _building from his childhood, which he was rather thankful for. Maybe it was his subsequent experience with the paper, but the offices looked vaguely sinister to him.

The editor's window was at the front of the building, overlooking the street. Harry's well-trained eye caught a murky figure standing in the darkness, looking out over Diagon Alley. The papers shouldn't be printing now. He set his jaw.

"Here goes nothing," Harry muttered to himself, pushing through the golden double doors at the office's front.

The _Prophet_'s reception area was all red velvet and mahogany, like a plush hotel, and a circular wooden desk. There was another set of double doors behind it and a staircase off to the left, which he knew from previous visits led upstairs to the offices. He was greeted immediately by a corpulent house elf, who popped up behind the desk, wearing a toga made out of a red hand towel and a kind of bellhop's hat constructed from old newspapers. The elf beamed at him, jowls wobbling.

"Master Potter!" the elf said. "Is good to be seeing yous. Is you having an appointment?"

"Afternoon, Archy," Harry said, taking off his hat and holding it in front of his chest. "I'm here to see Mr. Sloper,"

"Is you having an appointment, sir?" Archy said again, his wide blue eyes now looking slightly worried from his portly head.

"No," Harry said. "But he'll want to see me, I'm sure,"

The house elf look torn for a second, almost doing a little dance on the spot behind the desk, unable to decide between looking after a guest and doing his duty.

"Why don't you go and check with him, while I wait here," Harry said kindly. Archy nodded his portly head enthusiastically, then disappeared upstairs with a crack.

He waited to the count of three before stepping forward and trying the double doors. They didn't shift, but he could hear a chugging and churning from the room beyond. Harry pulled his wand out and rapped it smartly on the handle twice. There was a loud click as the door unlocked and Harry pushed his way inside.

The room was big and sitting in the centre of it was a giant printing press. Big and fat, belching out black smoke from the top in synch with the small, neat paper that shot out the other end. The papers were pumped out rapidly, dropping down to form piles which were being moved and stacked by a couple of bored looking wizards lazily wafting their wands about. It looked to Harry like some vast, mindless beast thoughtlessly spawning young.

"Hey, what are you doing in here?" one of the stackers asked. Harry ignored him and strode forwards, picking up one of the freshly printed newspapers from a stack. It was a special evening edition.

_THREE MUGGLEBORN DEAD IN A WEEK – NEW DARK LORD AMONG US?_

"Sloper you bastard," Harry hissed under his breath.

"Help you Director?" a voice asked from behind him. The auror turned and looked at the figure stood in the doorway. Jack Sloper had grown up a lot since he had tried out on the Gryffindor quidditch team but, then, they all had. His hair was tied back in a long ponytail, narrowed eyes peering out of a pair of those large, square spectacles that had become the fashion some years back. Harry re-adjusted his own pair a little self-consciously.

"What the hell is this?" Harry asked, shaking the paper out and gesturing at the headline.

"A newspaper," Sloper said, dry. "Shall we take this upstairs?"

_I should've taken that beater's bat and shoved it up your- _Harry thought, then broke into an uneven smile that was half manic.

"Why don't we," he said, calmer than he felt. Archy kept his down as Harry walked by.

With each step he took Harry felt a lead weight sink deeper into his stomach. This was not good. A headline like that would start a panic. What the hell was Sloper thinking? 'New Dark Lord' – it was likely to cause a riot. Pure speculation, no evidence and no need to publish. Sloper just wanted to make his money and keep his boss happy. Now there was a thought that was rather worrying – Sloper's boss.

By the time they had reached Sloper's office the newspaper had been scrunched into a ball in Harry's hand and he could feel his blood boiling up around his pulse point. Sloper sat down in his plush, wing-backed chair and span it around to face Harry across his desk, hands resting just behind the golden sign that said 'EDITOR'. Harry settled in a chair that he supposed was deliberately uncomfortable.

"How can I help you Director?" Jack asked pleasantly, steepling his fingers. Harry fought the urge to grab him by the ponytail and slam his head into the table. Instead he slammed the paper down on the table, pinning it until his knuckles went white.

"You can't print this Jack," Harry said. Sloper shrugged and leant back in his chair.

"I think you'll find that I can," he said. "What with being the editor of the most prolific magical newspaper in Great Britain and all,"

"I've always preferred _The Quibbler_," Harry said through clenched teeth.

"No accounting for taste," Sloper said with a slight incline of his head. Harry felt the urge to crack his skull open rising. He swallowed his rage like a bitter pill that burnt it's way down to his stomach. There was a moment of silence as the Head of the Auror department fought for control of his emotions.

"You buried the other cases," he said, closing his eyes and trying to calm himself. "Why not this one?"

"I did that as a favour," Sloper said firmly. "Back when you said that you'd have it solved and give me an exclusive in a couple of days. But it's been a week. And this is the third murder. You know I can't bury it any more,"

"That's crap Sloper, and you know it," Harry growled. "You're getting pressured. Is it Selwyn? Is he breathing down your neck? Because I'm going to talk to him next,"

"Mr. Selwyn's interest in the _Prophet _is purely financial, he has no input on content," Sloper said. "That's kind of why they have an editor,"

A thought floated to the angry, boiling surface of Harry's mind and he reached for it.

"How did you get this?" he asked, his voice quiet, his eyes thin and searching. "We've not published a full report yet, so it's none of your usual office stoolies. Did you get a tip off?"

Sloper's face lost the vaguely smug look and went completely blank. "I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility of a third party source on this information,"

Harry's eyes went wide.

"You got tipped off! You bastard!" he said, jumping out of his chair. Sloper stood up too, leaning low over his desk so that his glasses dangled precariously from his ears.

"I can neither confirm nor-"

"Bollocks!" Harry said, shouting now. "Who was it?"

"I cannot divulge any information pertaining to-"

"Shut up!" Harry shouted. It was the bad rage, like when he was younger, but back again clawing it's way out of his throat. "Tell me what I want to know Sloper,"

"You know I can't do that Harry," Sloper said, and for a hesitant second Harry thought he heard genuine feeling in his voice. But then it was gone.

"Bollocks you can't," Harry snarled. "I'll get a warrant from the Wizengamot and I'll fucking drag it out of that cesspit you call a mind, Sloper,"

Sloper snorted. "You wouldn't dare. You know exactly the piece I'd write afterwards too. 'Boy-Who-Lived violates intellectual superiors to avoid police work',"

That was just one jibe too much.

His wand was in his hand in a second, and then the desk went spinning end over end with a splintering thud. Sloper was thrown onto his back, scrambling on the floor, reaching into his pocket for his wand.

Harry's temper had always been a part of him. There had been a time once, long ago, just after the war had ended when he wondered if the black rages had simply been another burden of carrying part of Voldemort's soul, like the snake-whispering. And he had become a calm and level-headed man.

But they had come back eventually, brought on by the stress of the job, the daily dudgeon, the shrill piercing sound of screaming children when he went home. Whenever the stress was amped up, Harry would lash out, he knew it. He'd never shouted at the children, never, and he loved them more dearly than he knew what to do with. But the rages had been blacker since they had been born, and he could not deny that.

He needed some stress relief.

The two of them stood there for a second like that, wands levelled at each other. Then Harry started to smile – manic thing, slightly too wild for his normally calm face. Sirius would have been proud.

"Are you pointing your wand at the Head of the Auror Department, Mr. Sloper?" Harry asked, his voice perfectly calm as if he were offering a cup of tea.

"Are you breaking and entering on private property and intimidating members of the public, Mr. Potter?" Sloper asked, slightly breathless. "I didn't think your public approval could drop any lower, but we could always give it a try,"

"My public approval's fine," he said.

"Today," Sloper said with a sickening smile. "We were friends once Harry. That's why I'm willing to let you leave right now, and never bring this up again,"

There was a pause for a half second, then Harry had pocketed his wand back up his sleeve like a muggle stage magician.

"Sure," he said, turning for the door. "I will be following up your source, though, Mr. Sloper,"

"Fine," Sloper shouted as he left the office. "Just don't go looking to me for any more favours. Jack-booted little fascist,"

"Fucking journalists," Harry muttered as he walked back out into the rain.

Whilst he was walking to his next unannounced appointment, Harry called up Hermione. The little muggle mobile phone was a secret just between the two of them, purchased following Ron and Hermion's divorce. Ron had spent some time with Harry and Ginny at 17 Blackdrake Lane, and Hermione had very much been known as 'The Enemy'. The ability to secretly text one another, without anyone knowing, was one unavailable to much of the rest of the wizarding world. It certainly beat discrete owl post or, heaven forbid, a constant stream of talking patronuses.

Unfortunately Hermione was busy at a meeting just then, and he'd have to talk to her later. He seethed quietly and squelched his way back into London through the Leaky Cauldron.

Lord Horatio Selwyn's Gentleman's Fine Dining Hall was a gentleman's club that had been opened over a century ago by the current Mr. Selwyn's grandfather. The Club had stayed open through every war that had passed through it's doors, and weathered a number of new owners as the stakes of the Selwyn's rose and fell.

The current Mr. Selwyn was one of the peaks on that chart. Starting out as a fiercely successful expert in magical law, Bartholomew Selwyn had quickly become a philanthropist and generally beloved member of wizarding society. Following the fall of Voldemort, Selwyn had risen up to be one of the very few popular faces still spouting the pureblood agenda, not least because he was charismatic enough to make people believe in it a little. It was said he had his hand in the ministry, though Harry had ensured that it didn't reach into his department, and he was definitely pulling Sloper's strings over at the _Prophet_.

Bartholomew Selwyn had always seemed to Harry like a more successful version of Lucius Malfoy. Smart enough to know went to fold, genial enough to seem genuinely harmless, and without that sneer that made you want to punch him in the face. No, Selwyn was the face of the New Purebloods- vaguely bewildered at the new world, but willing to pitch in and lend a hand so long as they got their way some of the time.

He was insidious.

Which was why, when he reached Selwyn's Fine Dining, Harry was surprised to see Hermione walking out into the street. She was prepared for the weather, an umbrella in the hand that wasn't clutching a bundle of papers to her chest. Harry raised his eyebrows as he walked over, but didn't say a word. Hermione saw him and jumped, almost dropping her papers.

"Harry! Don't sneak up on me like that!" she said, regaining her balance a little ungracefully.

"I wasn't sneaking," Harry said. "You were just somewhere else entirely,"

"Hmm, I suppose I was," Hermione said with a shrug. "That meeting didn't go entirely as I had planned. Selwyn seemed okay with a friendly discussion, but his assistant was a real beast,"

"You were trying to arrest him?" Harry asked, genuinely impressed. Prosecutors of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were technically deputised to make arrests (stemming from the time a few centuries ago when aurors had been in short supply and low on quality), but he had yet to hear of someone attempting it in his twenty years on the job. And certainly not a big name like Selwyn. Hermione frowned.

"No, I wasn't trying to arrest him. I was trying to get his support for the new curriculum to include basic maths and English," she said. "Why, does he need arresting?"

Harry's face dropped a little. "Maybe," he said. He moved closer to her, quietened his voice. "I don't think so. There's been a development on that case I mentioned to you,"

"The murders?" Hermione said, brow furrowed. There was a single drop of rain on her nose. Harry shushed her.

"Not here," he muttered. "Don't know who might be listening,"

"Harry, you sound like Mad-Eye Moody," Hermione said, with real laughter in her voice. Harry felt a slight release of tension in his shoulders for a second, before the weight of the world settled back onto them. Moody was dead.

"Don't," he said. "Listen, we'll talk about it later. The usual place?"

"Sure," she said, a smile lighting up her face and his day. "Fancy some food?"

"We'll see," Harry said with a shrug. "I've got to get to work. Stay safe,"

With that he brushed past her and into the gentleman's club. He didn't even slow his pace as he walked through the door and past the greeter, flashing his auror's badge as he did so, and into the dining area, taking the empty seat at the table Selwyn was sat at.

"Oh," the old man sighed. "It's you,"

"Hey Bart," Harry said with a small smile. "Miss me?"

Selwyn was an old man, quite short, with thinning white hair and rheumatic eyes. The skin on his face hung in loose, saggy folds that made him look a little bit like a bulldog. Next to him was his personal assistant, a smart young man with neatly parted black hair and a look on his face like he'd just smelt something unpleasant.

"Always," he said, with a brief yellowing smile. "I do so enjoy our little talks,"

"Meetings with Mr. Selwyn must be booked," the PA said fussily. Harry rolled his eyes and even Selwyn snorted.

"Do shut up Rufus," Selwyn said. "I think we all know that Mr. Potter is not the kind to book appointments,"

"Yeah Rufus, shut up," Harry said with a smile. "See if you can't get me a glass of wine while you're at it, will you?"

"Aren't you on the job, Mr. Potter?" Selwyn asked with a smirk as he restarted on the lunch dish he had in front of him. Rufus sniffed, stood up, and went to the bar.

"I have a very high tolerance," Harry said. "How about you Bart? Strong stomach?"

"Rather unsettled actually," Selwyn said mildly. "I do so suffer from acid reflux sometimes. Quite a bother at my time of life you know,"

"I didn't know, no," Harry said, accepting the glass of red wine that the PA brought over. "Go away, please, Rufus,"

Selwyn nodded and Rufus left them with a little huff.

"How much do you know?" Harry asked the second he was out of earshot.

"My dear boy, I don't know what you're talking about," Selwyn said, putting a pink piece of smoked ham in his mouth.

"The Cassidy boy," Harry said, bluntly. "I know that Sloper's told you about it by now,"

"You do like to cut to the chase, don't you?" Selwyn said with a sigh. "I'd hoped that Pureblood wife of yours might teach you a few manners,"

"Ginny teaches me plenty," Harry said, automatically grinding his teeth at the mention of his wife by anyone that could ever want his family ill. "Sloper. He told you,"

"He has," Selwyn said, chasing some sauce around his plate with a piece of salad. "He also mentioned that you had a little blow up in his office just a few minutes ago. Nasty temper you've got there,"

"_Nasty temper he's got, that Sirius Black,"_

Harry shook the thought away and took a breath, unclenching his jaw. "We all have our moments. Now I know that you're also aware of the other two murders this week. Both muggleborn,"

"I don't know how you can possibly be sure of that," Selwyn said mildly. Harry shrugged.

"A couple more meetings of your little party than they normally have this week. Like they're getting ready for something big,"

"Not exactly conclusive," Selwyn said, taking a large bite out of a juicy tomato that ran in rivulets down his chin.

"Enough to base a hunch on though," Harry said.

"Oho, a hunch? Is this a shakedown?" Selwyn giggled. Harry's mouth twitched.

"If it were a shakedown, I'd have put your face through your plate already," he said, completely deadpan.

"Alright, sir, alright. No need to get all rough on me," Selwyn said, still giggling a little as he brought a napkin up to his mouth.

"Shut up. I know you keep a tight reign on your people, so I'm asking you now – was it one of yours?"

Selwyn stopped mopping up the juice on his chin, his eyebrows shooting into his thinning hair, quite surprised.

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

"We can play the back and forth game if you like," Harry said. "But I think there might be a time limit on this. So if you tell me now, I promise I'll sort it out quietly. No political backlash for you or your people,"

"No, _Mister_ Potter," Selwyn said, all good humour gone from his voice now. "It was not 'one of mine'. I keep a higher class of friend than murderers and psychopaths. Speaking of which, you've just worn out your welcome,"

Harry stood quietly and turned to go, resting his hand on the chair. He paused.

"Are you sure Selwyn?" Harry asked. "People's lives are at risk,"

"Not anyone I know," Selwyn said, and Harry wasn't quite sure which statement he was referring to. A waste of time. He started walking to the door.

"Mr. Potter?" Selwyn called out. Harry stopped again, in silence. "Am I to take it that this means you don't have any suspects?"

Harry swore to himself and walked out in silence. That was much more counter-productive than he'd imagined. He felt that he had given away slightly more than he had gained. Kingsley was going to roast his testicles over an open fire. Still, at least it meant that he wouldn't be damp any more, he thought as he walked out into the elements.

Harry spent the latter half of his day filtering through reports and helping Hale set up a bulletin board in the main office floor. The board had the pictures of the three victims pinned to it and a short description. A single green thread connected the word 'muggleborn' on each description. And that was all. He was subjected to a few veiled threats from other department heads, and some not so veiled, and an owl that promised him a meeting with Kingsley tomorrow. Deep joy.

And then finally, mercifully, it was the end of the day. Harry picked up his briefcase full of very important documents, put on his hat for very important people, and joined the queue for the disapparation point.

With a crack and a pop he was gone, gone, gone, and he felt the stress go, go, go with him. It was like the odd, squeezing vortex was pulling the pressure off of him, but he knew it was just the fact that he was escaping. Even for a little while.

He felt that nervous, aching tension in his hands that could only have been adrenaline, which surprised him. He thought he was used to it by now, but obviously he was wrong. Just the chance to see her, to see the smile, and feel the aches of the world go away. Even just for a little while. He felt almost addicted to it, that cathartic release that took him in these moments. So excited was he that he almost dropped the keys to the apartment as he let himself in.

He closed the door behind him and leant against it, forcing the rest of the world out for a few seconds. Then he dropped the briefcase, flung the soaked coat over an armchair, threw the hat as far as he could and mussed up his hair. It fell out of the neatly combed professional do and into the messy post-match bird's nest like it had been anxious for the change. Here he could be Harry, not Mr. Potter, not sir. Not director.

"Harry?" the voice came from the kitchen.

"Just coming,"

He kicked off his shoes, not tracking where they went, and walked over to the door of the kitchen. The sight there blew him away. Hermione was stood in her heels and an apron, and nothing else. There was a smidgeon of cookie mixture on her nose.

"You said you might be hungry. I've been baking," she said, a playful smile on her lips. She had that look in her eye. Harry said nothing, smiling dreamily, and motioned with his finger for her to spin around. His eyes roamed greedily over her body, sucking in the curves of her leg, following them up to the fuller roundness of her buttocks, and up to her barely concealed chest by the time she had finished her little pirouette.

"And what happened to your clothes?" he asked through his grin. She gave a shrug and looked completely innocent and utterly sinful all at once.

"I didn't want to get them messy," she said, using that sickeningly sweet voice she only had during play. "You know what I'm like,"

"Messy," he said, taking a step towards her. Her breath seemed to hitch, and he felt the grin form a smirk. It was good to know that he still had that power over someone. The way she looked up at him, barely concealed excitement in her eyes. She nodded.

"Dirty," he said. He smelt a scent that was achingly familiar over the smell of the cookies.

"Yes," she whispered, then blinked, trying to remember something. "Didn't you want to talk to me about something?"

"Later," he growled. And then he took her.

The rain beat it's rhythm against the window.


	3. Harry's Girls

Harry awoke from his slumber at about quarter to nine that evening. He opened his eyes, fresh and new, and looked about the room. It was a quiet, cheerful shade of blue that didn't offend the eyes or entice you into staying. The furniture was tasteful, Hermione's choice of course, but unmarked and unmoved – untouched by the day to day bustle of life. Unlived in. The bed was better, comfier, softer, cleaner than the rest. It was the bed that they really focused on. Harry had offered to pay for the apartment, but Hermione had insisted on covering the rent. He'd made up for it by furnishing the place. A lump sum like that was less noticeable to anyone investigating it.

Hermione's bushy head lay on his bare chest, fly-away hair scratching and tickling him. He smiled a little to himself and wound a lock of it around his finger, gently, so as not to wake her up. Harry usually woke up first and he enjoyed these moments where he could just watch her sleep. Enjoy the moment without focusing on the guilt, and the stress, and nagging feeling around his navel dragging him home. To his real home. His finger traced around the soft shell of her ear and she twitched a little, drawing a smile onto his face.

The thin sheen of sweat they had worked up and cooled now, prompting goosebumps to run up and down his arm. Down her legs too, he noticed, and he closed his eyes again. With an iron will he fought off the aching in his groin and let it settle again.

"Hermione," he said gently.

She stirred a little, but not a lot, and pressed her face deeper into his chest.

"Hermione," he said again, firmer this time. "I've got to get up,"

"Not yet," she mumbled. "Little longer,"

"No, now," he said, smiling. "I need to go,"

She moved again, this time rolling over to look at the clock. She got a glimpse then groaned and stuffed her head into the pillow.

"You do," she agreed. "I should probably head home too,"

Hermione wrapped the sheets around herself, suddenly shy now that their play was done. He couldn't really blame her, but some of his smile faded away a little. Harry shifted on the bed and searched for his underwear.

"I think they're in the kitchen," Hermione said, that devilish glint returning to her eye for just a second. A sudden flashback to mere hours ago, and accompanying reaction, sends him stalking off in search whilst she giggled at him.

He found his boxers flung over a chair and pulled them on, looking out at the storm that was beating down on the street below.

"Some weather we're having at the moment," he called out to Hermione as he gathered up his clothes.

"The rain?" she responded from the bedroom. "It's crazy. I heard a little old witch down in Portsmouth got blown out to sea! Of course she flew straight back in again on her broomstick, but I imagine she got a little wet,"

He wandered back to her, a wry little smile settling back on his face.

"Have we really descended to talking about the weather?" he said. Hermione snorted.

"Oh darling, has all the spark gone out?" she said in a sing-song voice.

"I'm afraid so," Harry said, still smiling. The sheet slipped a little, accidentally of course, pooling around Hermione's waist.

"Oops," she said.

"Oh look, it's back," he said with a chuckle, planting her a kiss on the lips before reclaiming his shirt from the floor.

"You wanted to tell me something earlier?" Hermione said, standing up from the bed, still wrapped in the sheet, and walking into the living room.

"Ah," Harry said, feeling the first little weight settling onto his shoulders. "Yes. The killings, the muggleborn killings, they've happened again. Bolder this time. Left the body where anyone could find it, no glamours or charms like last time,"

"You think that they'll kill again?" she said, settling down onto the armchair. Harry shrugged, tightening the tie around his collar.

"I think that it's part of their plan," he said. "They haven't made their point yet. So I think they're going to move on to famous faces next,"

"And you just so happen to think that my face is famous enough?" Hermione said, not even bothering to hide the disdain in her voice.

"I do," Harry said. "You're in the public eye, making waves. That education thing you're trying to push? The Helliots case? Your very public divorce from a Pureblood? You're exactly the kind of person that stuck up pureblood supremacists like this would love to get their hands on,"

"You don't need to protect me Harry," Hermione sighed. "I'm a big girl now, you know I can look after myself. You think that this is a group?"

"I have my suspicions," he said. "The methodology was different each time,"

"Is it possible they're not linked at all?" Hermione suggested. Now they were onto her favourite past time – solving riddles. Harry shrugged.

"Possible, but unlikely. You get a feel after a while, they're linked. The messages are the same each time," he said.

"Ah yes," she said. "The famous 'heir'. Malfoy maybe? He was always a bit of a fanboy,"

Harry let out a dark bark of a laugh that would have made his godfather proud. "Malfoy's not much good for anything these days. And he was never a killer, much as he would have liked to be. I think we can safely rule him out,"

"So it's Selwyn then? That's why you went to his club today," she decided. Another non-committal shrug.

"Maybe, maybe not. He's not the kind to get his hands dirty himself. And I don't think he knows who exactly is behind it. My thought is that it's a kind of trickle down thing; Selwyn pays some people to make a nuisance of themselves and get the Pureblood movement back in the news, that kind of thing. Maybe he didn't think it would get this out of hand,"

"No evidence? No clues?" she asked.

"Afraid not," he said. "The only thing we've got is a box that asks you riddles before you can open it. We thought it was a charm like the one on the Ravenclaw common room, but the 'claws in the department didn't have any luck on it,"

"Are you going to interview his school friends?"

"That's on the list," he said shortly. "I'll be interviewing the staff as well and some of the more reputable sources in the town,"

There was silence for a second as they both glossed over the sensitive subject of Ron, who had taken over the second of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' properties, in Hogsmede.

"You could try-" Hermione started, but Harry raised his hand. He sighed in the ensuing quiet and picked up his coat from the floor.

"I wasn't asking for advice," he said, as gently as he could. "I have a whole department of aurors working on it. I just want you to be safe,"

"And I don't want that?" she said, her mouth a thin line. Harry moved towards her on the armchair and placed his hand behind her head, holding her gaze.

"I really couldn't lose you Hermione," he said. "I'd lose my mind,"

"I...I know that," she said, her eyes flicking down again. "I do. I know,"

There was silence for a few more seconds there, as he held her, the two of them floating above something that had remained unsaid since the affair had started a year ago. Something that would remain unsaid. Something that they would regret.

"I have to go," he whispered. Something hardened in her eyes, and she moved her head out of his grasp.

"Then go," she said simply, and when Harry thought about it later he could have sworn that he'd seen tears forming in the corner of her eyes, for just a second, before she stormed off into her room and slammed the door. Just a second.

Then, later still, he decided that he'd been kidding himself.

He left the flat, now empty, and walked downstairs to the front door. He could have made the journey from the flat, but it didn't feel right somehow. Anyway, the rain cleansed him a little bit. This time at least. Put his mind onto less guilty thoughts. The apparation point was a ten minute walk away, but he made it in five, head down, braced against the elements. He was outside his front door before he was really soaked.

He let himself in and hung his hat and coat up on the rack that was waiting there. The tie followed, and then the suit jacket, and finally Harry was just clad in his (slightly damp) shirtsleeves and trousers. He poked his head into the living room and saw the flaming, curled up form of his wife on the sofa. The wireless was letting out a faint, quiet tune, and there was a plate of half-eaten spaghetti on the coffee table.

"Hey," he said quietly, dropping onto the cushion next to her with a bounce. "Is the munchkin asleep?"

Ginny stirred and stretched lightly, looking for all the world like a tabby cat waking up from a nap. She shifted herself a little and lay her head down on Harry's shoulder, nuzzling against it slightly. His arm came up and around her, pulling her closer into him.

"I put her to bed half an hour ago," she said, her tone hushed. "But she's still up. Think she wants a bedtime story from Daddy,"

"Ooh, I've got a great one about the Prince and the Basilisk all lined up," he said. Ginny sniggered slightly and swatted his shoulder.

"She doesn't need nightmares," she said.

"She won't get them!" Harry declared. "This one's got all the trimmings. It's all about this strong, manly, dashingly good-looking prince with black hair and green eyes. And his bumbling ginger squire,"

"Oh right?" Ginny said, looking up at him now. Harry closed his eyes and sunk back into the warm comfort of the sofa.

"Mmhmm. Don't worry, the fair maiden gets rescued in the end. The prince ties the basilisk in a knot and leaves it in front of a mirror, so it can't open it's eyes to see how to escape without being turned to stone," Harry said.

"You need to fact-check – the gaze of the basilisk can kill. Or so I hear," Ginny said, some of the humour dropping out of her voice.

"This one just turns people to stone," Harry said. "Very conveniently,"

"You're right, that is very convenient," Ginny said, leaning closer into Harry's chest. "How was work?"

He thought about swearing very bluntly, but remembered at the last moment that delicate ears might be listening in.

"Shocking," he said. "Very nasty case. I need to head up to the school tomorrow to oversee some interviews, but it'll be in all the papers,"

"You can say hello to my rascal of a brother then," Ginny lowered her voice and leant across Harry to push the living room door shut. "The muggleborn killings again?,"

"Another one, yes," he said. "This one a student on the run from Hogwarts. The _Prophet_'s running with it,"

"That Sloper scrote?" Ginny said. "It's gone downhill again since he joined up. Half my articles are getting cut to pieces before they get put in. More if I'm criticising the national side's performance. Ponsonby for keeper, I tell you,"

His wife ranted on for a little while about the woes of the British quidditch team and Harry felt himself drift off slightly into a happy dream, away from the troubles of the day. His thoughts went back to that summer after the world had been saved, which he, Ron, Hermione and Ginny had danced away as though it were only one evening. It was a good dream, and he felt a little bit of a jolt when Ginny dragged him back down to earth.

"Aren't you going to ask me about my day?" she asked archly. Harry nodded diplomatically.

"Of course I am my dear. How was your day?"

"Miserable," she pouted. "I've had this horrible flu thing. I didn't get half the words I needed done for my piece, not that it mattered, and Lily's been running me ragged,"

Now that he looked, Ginny did look pale even in the half light of the lamps. Harry put the back of his hand against her forehead and was shocked at how cold she was. He opened his mouth to say something, when a plaintive voice was heard from upstairs.

"Muuuuuummy! I can't sleep,"

He felt Ginny tense and calmed her with a kiss on the forehead.

"Take yourself up to bed," Harry said. "I'll deal with little miss,"

He heard his little girl calling and took the stairs two at a time. Lily's bedroom was pink, hideously pink, offensively pink, oppressively pink. It reminded Harry very slightly of the very first time he had seen Ron's room – brilliantly orange.

"_It's not much, but it's home,"_

A voice from long ago, far away.

"Daddy!" Lily squealed, jumping out of bed and running into his arms. He picked her up easily and swung her around in a wide circle before depositing her back on her bed.

"Hey sweetie," he said, planting a big, sloppy kiss on her ginger fringe that made her giggle. "Mummy told me that she'd already put you to bed,"

"I couldn't sleep," she said, innocent green eyes wide.

"Oh couldn't you now?" he asked, smirking. She was playing him, and they both knew it. It still worked of course, and he pulled the bedcovers up around her, tucking her in.

"Nu-uh," she said. Lily was ten, almost eleven now, and soon to be packed off to Hogwarts. But to Harry she would always be his little girl, who he'd held in his arms when she was born. He'd been late, he remembered, later than he'd been for either James or Al. He supposed, in a way, that was the story of his life. Always getting a little later. It wasn't too long ago.

"Could it perhaps be that you were waiting for a story?" he asked.

"How did you know?" she asked, trying not to giggle. He wiggled his eyes mysteriously and leaned in close, putting his hand to his mouth in a stage whisper.

"I'm a detective y'know,"

She burst into a fit of giggles that warmed him a little. It was a little running joke they had. He couldn't remember how it had started, but it got the same reaction every time. He looked at her now, and couldn't remember ever having been so small. So happy. So innocent. He had only been a few months older than her when he'd knocked out a troll. Saved his first life. Interfered with that first scheme. Got that first adrenaline rush.

"_Troll in the bathroom..."_

He cleared his throat.

"So. Story time?" he asked. Lily nodded her head eagerly, then turned her face into a frown.

"What's up sweetheart?" Harry asked, rubbing at his eyes a little. The day was starting to get to him.

"Why were you so late home daddy?" Lily asked.

An icy dagger of guilt straight into his heart.

"I was working sweetheart," he said gently, disgusted at how quickly the lies came to his lips. "You know that I have to do a lot of work some times,"

"And this is one of those times," she said, nodding her head a little.

"This is one of those times," he said. A lie. Only a little bit, in this case, but enough of a lie nonetheless.

"So you know you're seeing Uncle Ron tomorrow?" she said, confirming his suspicion that he'd been listening in.

"Yeeees?"

"Can I have a toy?" she asked brightly. 'Uncle Ron's' shop stocked a high number of quality wizarding toys, as well as the finest in all your joke-making gear. Harry rolled his eyes dramatically.

"We'll see. If you're good and you look after Mummy whilst she's ill. Okay?"

"Okay daddy,"

"Right. Now. Story time. I'm going to tell you a story about the brave Prince Larry and his faithful squire, Ralph,"

"Oooooh, is it the one where Ralph sets his bottom on fire?"

"No sweetie. This one's about a monster..."


	4. An Interview With A Friend

That night Harry slept fitfully, twisting and turning under the sheets whilst his wife lay rigid beside him. Sleep had come easily, mercifully quickly, after he'd slid under the covers. But once it came to him, he could not sleep well.

He was at the Ministry Ball, his dress robes a deep shade of black that you could lose yourself in if you weren't careful. His face was younger, unlined by the stresses and ages of the day, none of the frightening encroach of grey about his temples.

He was surrounded by shifting, twirling, colourful couples that caught his eye and spun it as they danced past, dizzying him as he wandered around the ballroom. His drink was sweet and bright, not firewhiskey or any form of wine that he could remember. He sniffed it again, smelt a faint air of honey and almonds, wondered if it were poisoned, then had another sip.

"_Mead is a drink to toast a fallen champion with, Harry,"_ Dumbledore said as he danced past, McGonagall his partner, but that couldn't be because Dumbledore was dead and Minerva walked with a cane now.

"_But no-one's died, sir,"_ Harry said, and he was a fourteen-year-old boy again for a second, dressed up for the Yule Ball.

"_No, Harry,"_ Dumbledore said, his voice present but his body departed. _"But there are other ways to fall,"_

Harry, Harry the adult, moved on through the ballroom. The band hand changed from irritating pop rock to the kind of smooth jazz that he had grown to enjoy over the years. An eighteen-year old girl in a glittering emerald dress stepped from behind him, offering out her hand. He took it and spun her, her red hair gleaming like the sun, eyes full of a wild excitement.

"_Ginny,"_ he breathed. They were younger now, he knew it, at somebodies wedding. He couldn't remember who's. There had been so many weddings after the war had ended. Neville and Hannah's maybe? It didn't matter. He was a young man again and his heart was beating out of time as he danced with her.

"_You sure know how to show a girl a good time Potter," _she said, and in a second she had crossed the distance to be dancing close to him. Her body was almost so warm, it was like resting his hands next to a fire. His skin felt electric so close to hers and he was almost speechless with happiness.

"_Well there's just so many to keep happy at once,"_ Harry drawled, spinning her again with an almost lazy degree of calm. Young Ginny snorted and shook her hair out of her face.

"_And you know that I'd cut your bollocks off and stuff them into your eyes if you ever tried anything like that with me,"_ she said, a fiercely possessive smile on her face.

"_Duly noted,"_ he said. And then he kissed her.

And then she was gone and he was walking onwards. He was heading towards the centre of the room, he realised now, and there was a crowd of people blocking his way. They were stood there, facing away from him, looking at something, and he couldn't tell what. He started pushing his way past them, forwards, into the fray, when someone touched his shoulder from behind.

"Harry?"

He span around and he was in Hermione and Ron's kitchen. There were smashed plates on the floor and a bouquet of shredded roses in the sink. Dinner was in the bin, and Hermione was sat at her table, an empty bottle of red wine underneath her chair and a new one in her hand.

"_How could he just leave like that?"_ she asked between sobs. "_Just storm out and run off to _mummy_. All of this, gone to waste. I made an effort! I don't understand him, I really don't! Poor Hugo doesn't know what's going on and I...I..."_

She broke down into fresh sobs, her makeup running down her face, and pink blotches appearing at the top of her cheeks. She buried her head in her arms, knocking the wine bottle dangerously. Harry reached out and caught it on impulse, moving it safely out of the way. Her hand struck out and caught his arm before he could move it away. He looked down at her, wild eyes ringed with streaked , dark smudges of mascara.

"_It should have been you, Harry,"_ she said. _"It should have been us. From the very start. It would have been different. So different,"_

Had she said this the first time? He didn't think so. He tried to remember, but it was a blur, and so long ago, and hadn't he been drinking too? Hadn't it started on the sofa, in Hermione's new flat, when they were chuckling about the time they rode a hippogriff to save his godfather? Hadn't it been him that had made the first move, taking her face in his hands?

It hadn't happened like that.

Harry moved through the crowd and ran into Hermione again. But it was a different Hermione to the distraught wife he'd seen a second ago. This was the young Hermione, the witch who had solved the mystery of the Chamber months before anyone else. A Hermione untouched by the cruelties of the world to such a degree as his Hermione. An innocent.

"_Hi Harry,"_ she said brightly, straightening out a pleat in her skirt.

"_Hi Hermione,"_ he said, his voice breaking a little. It hurt him to see her so young. From so long ago.

"_D'you know what you're walking into next?"_she asked, in that old tone she used when checking up on his homework.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head.

"_Don't look. Please. You won't like it,"_ she said. So self-assured. So confident. So completely aware of her place in the world and how she was going to deal with it.

"_I have to see,"_ he said, and suddenly knew it to be true. He walked through the ghost of his best friend and into the scene before him.

_He was at the Ministry Ball, last year, his dress robes the deepest black. He was drinking a glass of champagne and talking to Susan Bones about how quickly she was getting on in Magical Law and how, yes, how people still talked about Amelia Bones around the office. He was interrupted by Kingsley, who was wearing robes of the most regal purple._

"_Director Potter," he boomed, in his deep, calming voice. "I do hate to tear you away from such a charming young woman, but I have some people for you to meet. This is Samuel Cassidy, the potions magnate,"_

_A tall man with a flat nose, like it had been broken, stepped forwards and offered his hand. Harry shook it and gave him a smile._

"_How could I not know the name of the man who created the Instant Shrinking Potion?" he said cheerfully. Another controlled substance for the Department of Misuse of Magical Medicines to regulate._

"_A pleasure, Mr. Potter,"_

"_And this is his son, Jonathan," Kingsley said, pushing forward a nervous young man. He had his father's sandy blonde hair and wore thin spectacles that were perched on the end of his long nose. He smiled awkwardly and offered his hand._

"_Nice to meet you Jonathan," Harry said, happy he'd been able to hit the champagne first. He hated hob-knobbing with Kingsley's supporters. Boring as sin, to a man. _

"_I'll leave you to it Harry," Kingsley said. "I'll have a word with Miss Bones about that bit of legislation I was looking at,"_

_Harry gave him a wave. The awful liar. He'd just dropped off the two most boring backbenchers he could find and taken the prettiest witch off for a chat. Samuel Cassidy turned to him, looking on with serious blue eyes._

"_Mr. Potter, I'm aware that you were raised by Muggles," he said, as if this were a very dangerous state secret. Harry raised an eyebrow._

"_You and half the wizarding world, Mr. Cassidy," he said. "Myself, I'm aware that you're Muggleborn,"_

"_Very good Mr. Potter," Cassidy said with a nervous little laugh. "I was hoping that with you're background, you might be able to support a new act I'm drumming up support for. One that would ensure children from wizarding families received a solid education,"_

"_Ah," Harry said. "You want to send them to learn maths, eh?"_

"_Something like that," Cassidy said, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Harry frowned a little and whirled onto Jonathan._

"_Did your dad send you to a Muggle primary school,Jonathan?" Harry asked. Jonathan shrugged a little then shook his head._

"_Jonathan was home-schooled," Samuel said. "He's very bright,"_

"_Are you now?" Harry said, his eyes twinkling. He'd learnt that from Dumbledore, somewhat, an imitation at least. It usually had the desired effect on people."And what are you planning on doing with that?"_

"_I want to be an auror, sir," Jonathan said. Harry recognised the look in the boy's eyes now. It was hero worship. He coughed a little awkwardly and gave a nod._

"_Well if you're as bright as your father thinks you are, you should have no problem," he said with a smile._

"_Thankyou sir," Jonathan simpered. Harry fought a curl in his lip. The kid didn't have the nerve to be an auror. He turned to the father._

"_Let me introduce you to a friend of mine. She's around here somewhere..."_

Harry awoke with a sudden start, freezing cold and half naked. The covers had been pulled off the bed and lay on the floor in a heap. Ginny was standing in her nightie by the window, which was wide open, letting in cold gusts of air that had hardened her nipples. He frowned and rolled off of his side of the bed.

"Sweetheart?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

He got a numb nod in return and guided his delirious wife back to bed, tucking her up in a couple of warm, thick blankets. He made his way to the window and looked out into the bleak, drizzling expanse of the London night.

He'd had dreams before, prophetic dreams, and helpful dreams. But none since the death of Voldemort. Now his dreams normally involved cheese, or horrible flashbacks, or Hermione in an inappropriate position. Not the weird, half ponderous-half mad conversations he'd just had in his head. Nor the vivid, clear memory he'd just experienced.

He closed the windows and went to bed.

He'd remembered something, but he didn't know what.

At lunchtime the next day, Harry found himself sat in the corner booth of the Three Broomsticks nursing a soothing pint of butterbeer. The interviews at the school hadn't been quite as productive as he'd been hoping. Jonathan Cassidy's schoolfriends didn't have much to say about him, good or bad. He was just a decent guy, a little shy, who liked a laugh with the rest of them. His teachers said he was very work conscious. He got bullied by the Slytherins a little but, then, who didn't? Did he ever seem worried about anything? No. He was always fairly upbeat.

What a shock when he had run away.

His two o'clock interview was running a little late, and he was considering leaving, when the doors to the Broomsticks opened. The figure that walked in looked like some kind of cross between a pirate and a cowboy. He wore a black dragonhide waistcoat that hung open, and a shirt that had a few more buttons undone that perhaps necessary. His trousers were tailor-made, and left very little to the imagination, and Harry was surprised that his boots didn't have spurs that jingled when they touched the floor.

The piratical edge was added by the red beard, which was incredibly well-trimmed, but just long enough to take focus away from the length of his nose. There was a scar on his face, running from his eyebrow down to his cheek that could have made him look sinister. Instead it just made him look cool. He'd caught it fighting one of the last Death Eaters, don't you know? It was certainly catching the attention of the female clientèle. And the barmaid.

Harry always thought that he looked a little stressed, and was starting to show his age slightly if they grey hairs at his temple were anything to go by. Hermione, when she wasn't putting on a performance of sheer mouth-watering eroticism, looked mousy and a tad harried. But of the three of them, Ron Weasley had just hit his prime.

"Harry!" he boomed as he approached the corner booth. Harry stood and opened his arms.

"Hey mate," Harry said fondly, gripping him in a tight hug. Ron waved vaguely at the bar and the barmaid hurriedly started trying to find a bottle of butterbeer for him whilst they sat down at the booth.

"How're you doing?" Ron asked. "We missed you at the poker game last week,"

Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus had been meeting up once every couple of months to play poker for the last five years. It had been Ron's idea, he remembered, though it had eagerly been pounced upon by Seamus and Dean.

"Work," Harry muttered bitterly. "Who won?"

"Neville," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Who d'you think?"

"Fair enough," Harry said mildly, taking a sip of his butterbeer. A silence sat between them for a second that hadn't existed years ago. _I'm fucking your ex-wife_, Harry thought to himself, but sat silent upon it. No-one's fault but his own.

"What brings you to sunny Hogsmede then?" Ron asked. "Come to sample some of my new wares? I tell you mate, the things these Australian witches come up with,"

Ron's branch of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was much more comprehensive than the original shop in Diagon Alley had been in the old days. It had various sections that you had to pass age lines to cross. Whilst the usual buffet of pranks, gadgets, and sweets were available at the very front of the shop, some of the products in the back were of a less savoury nature. So he was told. Not that he'd tried any of them on Hermione.

Ahem.

"Nothing like that," he said with a wry smile. "I'm here on a case, interviewing some students up at the castle,"

"Oh, the murder case?" Ron said, his tone dropping very quickly. If Harry could say only one thing for his best mate, it was that he was quick on the uptake.

"Yeah," he murmured. "It was a student at the school. Name of Jonathan Cassidy. Ever run in to him?"

"No way," Ron said. "The only kids I know the name of these days are the ones that buy up all my stock. Kyle Neros and Vivien Carter. And they're not exactly Fred and George standard,"

Fred and George Weasley had remained, posthumously in one case, the best troublemakers that Hogwarts had ever seen. Every crime and joke was measured upon their success and nothing would ever make Professor Flitwick destory the last of their swamp.

"What about worrying kids?" Harry asked. "You must here something from up at the school? A Malfoy-esque type? You know, pureblood supremacy and all that,"

"Not that I know of," Ron said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Listen, shouldn't you be talking to Neville about all of this? Or McGonagall? They actually know the kids you're asking about. I just run a shop,"

"Yeah, but if I run it by them, it all becomes official. I just wanted some off the record information," Harry said with a shrug. Ron frowned and looked down into the bottle of butterbeer that had been transported over at some point in the conversation.

"Was that all you were after?"

"And a catch-up with my oldest and best friend," Harry said, giving his first smile with genuine warmth of the day.

"You had be worried there for a second," Ron said, drinking some of his butterbeer. It foamed and left a milky white residue on the ginger moustache on his lip.

"You've got a little something," Harry said, indicating his friend's entire face.

"I'm saving it for later," he said. They both laughed.

Harry spent the afternoon drinking, and remembering why they were friends. After a while, and enough drinks, he was able to forget that he was sleeping with Ron's ex-wife. And that he was cheating on Ron's sister. He was simply able to remember that Ron was his friend and wanted the best for him. He clung to that feeling, as he clung to Ron later in the evening when the heavy-weight Apparated him home, because he knew that it would be gone when sobriety came.

He went to sleep that night in a vaguely happy blur, holding his wife's cool body against him. There was something wrong with that, and something that he was missing on the case, he knew that. But he also knew that, right then, he didn't care.

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**AN:**Reviews and recommendations are always appreciated, and usually make me write more. Or, potentially, less if that's what you're after.


	5. A Visit From The Minister

**AN:** A slightly shorter chapter this time, I hope you'll forgive me. As ever, the work is my own, but the universe is not. Reviews and recommendations greatly appreciated.

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Harry's head was throbbing with a sharp, knife-like pain that stabbed at his temples as he sat at his desk that morning. He remembered why he didn't go drinking with Ron much any more, and it had less to do with his vices than he'd thought. Maybe he just couldn't keep up. He'd sent Ron and owl with a note moaning about the state of his head, and received a very chipper reply from the shop owner that he had quickly torn up and burnt with his wand.

The sun shifted ever so slightly in the sky, sending rays of blinding white light into his eyes and a stab of pain strait into his eyes. He hissed and pulled the blinds on his window shut, plunging him once again into darkness. Harry breathed a little sigh of relief and sunk back into his chair, letting out a wheezy groan. The firewhiskey had really gotten the better of him this time. He opened a draw in his desk and reached for his third Pepper-Up Potion of the day.

Trust him to pick up an aversion to light on the one day the sun had tried to peak through the rain clouds.

The auror winced as he tipped the burning contents down his throat, but was thankful when he blinked away some of his hangover. He needed to have his brain free for helpful thoughts. A quick glance into the auror pool below his office showed a couple of individuals gathered around Cassidy's trunk, trying to break the surprisingly enhanced enchantments on the box.

It fit with what Harry could work out about the boy. With the profile he'd made in his head, but hadn't copied down to parchment yet.

Jonathan Cassidy. 17. Sandy hair, gaunt features, not a match with previous victims. Ravenclaw, muggleborn, bullied. Not openly, but the way his friends spoke it seemed as though he'd had run ins with some of the Slytherin boys. Clever, very clever if the trunk was anything to go by, seemed to excel in his studies.

_Wanted to be an auror, _that sly voice in Harry's head added. He tried to shake it off, like he normally did, but the thought wouldn't leave him. The kid wanted to be an auror. To be a detective. To help people.

And now he was dead.

Someone, somewhere along the line, had failed. And with a sinking feeling, Harry felt that it might have been him. Was there something he could have done, at some point, to have saved John Cassidy's life?

There was a knock at the door and Harry was pulled out of his thoughts by the slightly anxious face of junior auror Doshi.

"Yes?" he asked, a little too tightly. He saw the young woman's face twitch and fall slightly, and chided himself.

"How may I help you?" he added, a trifle more polite.

"I've got the Minister here to see you, sir," Doshi said. Harry sighed and leant back in his chair, wondering if he could just leap out of the window.

"Send him in," he said.

He'd been dodging the Minister all morning and most of yesterday evening. The idea of talking through the investigation with the ex-auror was not one he was particularly looking forward to, especially considering that they had no real leads and the press was out for blood. Still, he forced a weary smile onto his face as his boss entered his office.

"Harry!" the tall, dark skinned man boomed, extending his hand. Harry shook it heartily and couldn't help but give a smaller, more genuine smile. Kingsley had a way of calming everyone in the room just by his mere presence, even if it was only the two of them.

"Minister," he said. "I wasn't expecting you. I imagine you've stopped by for one of Kelley's famous Thursday Margaritas?"

Kingsley smiled as he eased himself into the seat opposite Harry's. "Not this week I'm afraid," he said. "It's a bad business, Harry,"

"_Bad business, Hagrid,"_

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked almost the complete opposite to Cornelius Fudge. Whereas Fudge had been short, fat, and pink, Kingsley was tall, dark, and lean. He had retained his casual good looks after taking the hardest job in the country, but had lost some of the muscle he'd used to carry with it along with his dangling earring. In fact, Harry fancied he looked thinner every time they met. But whilst the stresses of the job showed, Kingsley still looked approachable. It was a very good tactic, Harry thought. It made you forget that you were sat opposite the most powerful man in the country. And that if he had to, he would break you.

Because there might come a time when it was for the best of the country.

Harry's smile tightened a fraction.

"I know, Minister," he said. "But I have my best people on the case. And I trust that they'll get the job done,"

"Who's working it?" Kingsley asked.

"Hale and Kelley," Harry said. "Like I said, my best people,"

"Your best is Hapgood," the Minister said. "And you know it,"

Harry paused before answering. Eleanor Hapgood was his nominal second-in-command, an up and coming young woman with her eyes set on the top. She had a good track record, and she was a good face to give to the press, but she was obnoxious as all hell. Besides the point, she'd never worked a serial homicide. Harry didn't trust her as far as he could throw her. It always felt, to him at least, like she was holding something back.

"She's a good political," he said slowly. "But I'm not sure that she can crack this case,"

"Political is what you need right now," Kingsley said, pulling yesterday's _Daily Prophet_ from inside his maroon robes.

"I've seen it," Harry said.

"Have you?" Kingsley asked. "Because you haven't done anything about it. No statement issued, nothing done to assure the public. People are scared Harry, and you're not helping them. Not yet. What do you have on this?"

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. I suppose I can give them an exclusive on the details of the first murder, that might get the headlines on our side for a couple of days. Usual spiel, isolated incidents, nothing to be alarmed about, no organised motivation behind it,"

"No. What do you _have_?" the Minister asked again.

"Nothing, Kingsley!" Harry said, standing up from his chair and walking over to the window to look into the rainy street below. "I don't have anything on this. We've scrubbed all three bodies, all three crime scenes, used every technique we know. But there's nothing left behind. Nothing except the messages. In water, carved into the flesh, and in blood with the Cassidy boy. 'Enemies of the heir'. We've got Cassidy's lockbox, but the kid must have trained at Gringott's, because we can't get the fucking thing open. I interviewed his father personally. The poor sod has no idea what's going on. We don't have a leg to stand on,"

There was silence between them, for a second, and he could hear Kingsley breathing slightly more heavily as he processed the situation.

"What does your gut say?" the ex-auror asked, for one second sounding immeasurably tired. Harry shrugged and turned to look at him.

"It's Selwyn, I think," he said. "A pureblood group killing muggleborns to send a message. Just like the old days,"

"Have you any evidence for this?" Kingsley asked.

"It fits. Selwyn and his group of pureblood rennaissancers are getting more and more popular. I think there was talk of putting out a magazine or something. And that book, the Zimmer book, that's been published. You tell me that's not glorification of the Dark Arts, and that it's not been taken right up by those supremacists,"

There was sigh. "So you have nothing,"

"Not yet,"

"I would advise you not to look down this path, Harry," Kingsley said. "It will cause us more problems than good. Selwyn has a hefty following in the Wizengammot. There is talk of a...rally for his supporters,"

"A rally?" Harry asked, eyes bulging in shock. "A rally? Kingsley, can you hear yourself? You can't let these maniacs have a _rally_ – it's insane!"

"We live in a free society," the Minister said gravely. "I cannot take away their right to free speech, or risk creating an even bigger issue out of it,"

"But don't call it a rally, for Merlin's sake! Call it a march, or a protest, or a parade. But a rally? There'll be riots on the street Kingsley,"

"I have no doubt that that is what Mr Selwyn intends in the end, Harry. No doubt. And no doubt he will calm the rioters, and will then be Minister of Magic," Kingsley said, very steadily, though Harry could hear the slightest of tremors in his voice. "The game I am currently playing with him is very dangerous. One slip and all our good work will be undone. I am telling you, Director Potter, that you should be helping me in this,"

"And what about the truth, Minister? What about justice? Should I just sweep that under the carpet whilst you play chess?" Harry said, all but snarling through gritted teeth. Kingsley looked at him like he was a favourite pupil that had just shat himself during a debate on philosophy.

"Why don't you think about what kind of justice would help the game, Harry," he said, softly, as he stood. "You think Selwyn killed all these men himself? Don't find Selwyn. Find Selwyn's man. And make sure you have enough evidence to nail him to the wall. For my sake, and yours, play the game whilst you do it,"

With that he turned in a swish of his brilliant cloak, and walked out back towards the rest of the Ministry. Harry watched him go in silence and then span around in his chair, opening the blinds on the window. The sun had had a brief innings indeed. The rain had returned. He watched a young mother and her small son running down the street under a red umbrella. Her hair was a brilliant ginger, and his was startlingly dark.

It was a little like looking into some mirror of the past in a world so very different from their own. He wondered, idly as ever, what he would be if his parents had lived to see him grow. Would he be an auror still? An adulterer? Would he be a good man? A weaker man? Or a different man entirely. He couldn't tell. But he knew that wishing for something else did not change the situation that he was in now.

The locked box. The dead boys. The killer in the rain. The three girls. The cuckolded friend. The old player and the older game. The jaded auror.

Something had to break sooner or later. He sighed and closed his eyes. A fancy took him.

Way back when he had been a junior auror rounding up loose Death Eaters, he'd run into a brick wall on a case. Literally, he had chased a suspected snatcher into a dead end in an anti-apparation warded area and the bastard had disappeared into thin air. He'd taken a dozen photos of the alley, and the building on the other side of the wall, and kept a watch on it day and night. Nothing absolutely nothing. So he closed his eyes and wished for a lead. And then, as if someone higher up had been listening, one of the bin lids clattered to the floor.

Whilst he had turned the bins inside out to look for the suspect, he had not thought that the man might actually transfigure himself into a bin itself. You had to admire the stupidity of some people. It took three days worth of corrective magic to get him back to his original state, and dogs still liked to pee on him.

Harry closed his eyes and wished for a lead.

An owl pecked at the window.


End file.
